In Shifting Winds
by BrokenSolitude
Summary: Barbossa and Jack team up once again in a riotous adventure to break the Black Pearl out of her bottle! But when a young upstart pirate challenges Barbossa's name, and a surprising woman catches his attention, Barbossa gets more than he bargains for...
1. Chapter 1

**Pirates of the Caribbean- In Shifting Winds**

**Summary: "Following Blackbeard's death, Captain Barbossa is one of the most feared pirates to ever set sail. But when a legendary descendant challenges him, and things go amiss on his ship, can Barbossa keep his cool long enough to sort himself and his problems out?"**

**Rating: Teen, for violence, fantasy violence, alcohol consumption, mild cursing (because I CAN curse in a Disney fic. See? I've told you), and mildly sensual situations.**

**Main Characters: Hector Barbossa, Jack Sparrow, OC's...and some to be revealed!**

**Pairings:** **See, now, mate, that's a secret. There could be none. There could be one. There could be many. But this isn't a romance fic. So you'll just have to wait and find out!**

**Genre:** **Action/Adventure/Thriller**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

><p>"'Ector! Oh <em>'Eeector<em>!" The voice called to him. He pulled his hat low, taking a deep swig of rum to drown his discomfort in.

It wasn't like Captain Barbossa to groan, but groan he did.

The tavern whore sidled up to him, her intent clearly written on her features; his disgust was written on his. He had already made certain that three Tortuga prostitutes would not soon forget him that evening- he could handle no more. It didn't help matters that a violent storm was brewing, and he'd- once again- discovered he could feel it in his stump of a leg. And, to top it all off, he was tired and hungry and still not drunk enough and just all around cranky. Simply lovely.

"'Ector Barbossa, it's been a long, long toime!" She crooned, pressing her ample- and very exposed bosom- against his upper arm while she shamelessly toyed with his shirt collar.

"Arr, missy, that'd be Captain Barbossa, to the likes of ye." He drawled, downing the last of his drink in one mighty swig. She was relentless, however, and it stirred severe frustration inside him.

"Alroight then, _Captain_, can ye steer me to port tonight?" She giggled, leering at him. Barbossa sighed and flicked his arm, shoving her off of him quickly. He didn't want to be reminded of his exhaustion, when he was in such a frame of mind. And, what was worse: he wasn't sure why he was in such a frame of mind. Perhaps some actual sleep would do his weathered body good. But not before he had another round of rum.

He raised a hand to signal the bartender, who nodded and passed him another draught, which he deftly caught as it slid along the slivered wood of the bar top. He was just about to savor the sweet taste as it passed his lips and hit his uncursed stomach when the same prostitute sat down with a pout beside him, fingers once again helplessly entangled with his clothing. He paused, completely still, while the world around him seemed to speed up.

"Oh, come now, Cap'an, ain't I good enough for ye anymore? I'll even split my price in 'alf, just because you're a repeat cust'mer."

He was getting distressingly tired of this common whore touching him. Who was she to think she owned him, after it was _he_ who had once ravaged _her_? Barbossa cut his gaze sharply to stare her down.

"Ye have five seconds to be gettin' those purty little hands off me, lass, or you might find yer arms returning home without them."

Within three of the five alloted seconds, she frowned, painted lips puckering into a most unbecoming expression, and removed herself from his company. Barbossa sighed, trying to relax. Perhaps another drink was not what he needed. Suddenly, he only longed for sleep. Peaceful, easy slumber.

Heaving himself to his leg and peg with great effort, Barbossa winced at the dull phantom pains of a limb that no longer existed, and waddled out of the tavern. The cool, salty night air refreshed him somewhat. Ah, the pirate's mecca! Tortuga always seemed to bring forth a sense of home from within him, which was odd, considering he only really got that feeling aboard a ship (mostly the Pearl, though he was getting used to the Revenge with ease). He decided he didn't desire sleep, either, and set off for a short walk- or, rather, a hobble.

As always, Tortuga's very air was alive with blessedly damned electricity- snaking forth from the corrupt currents that surrounded the island and everyone on it. Hector Barbossa breathed deeply, feeding off of the spark in the atmosphere. When he exhaled, it sprung forth with an exalted, wordless sound of triumph.

He was a pirate, again.

Patting the sword that hung on his hip absently, he strolled along the twisting paths and in and out amongst the many people, be they pirate, prostitute, laborer, and the occasional displaced honest sailor. Many he recognized, many he did not. It was the nature of the job. He realized that his time in the British Royal Navy had left its mark on him- however falsified his intent with them had been- but the thought plagued him less than usual. He didn't seem to feel overly different, save for a jolt every time he took a step with his right leg. He didn't act much different. Perhaps he was back to normal.

Barbossa wound slowly around the sprawling complex on that side of the shore, lights, laughter, and sounds of drunken singing coming to him on the wind. He walked the sandy beaches, parting the grains with the toe of his boot idly, for something to do while he cleared his mind enough to be able to rest. A pirate's work was never finished, but he, at least, was finished for just that night.

Finally having had enough, Barbossa trudged up the beach until he hit the dirt once again, climbing the mild incline with about as much grace as a wounded horse attempting to high step. Ah, well. No one had ever counted on him to be a star ballerina, anyway (and if they had, he had no knowledge of it). The sound of the crashing waves melded seamlessly into the sounds of the ever-raging party that was Tortuga, before they faded into the distance behind him. The nightlife rallied on as the moon rose high in the sky- he thanked the powers that were that he was no longer affected by anything other than its dazzling beauty. Burning oil lamps and candles surrounded him, casting a soft, teasing golden glow over everything they touched. They spoke of mysteries, treasure beyond his wildest imagination. It was hard to believe that there were things out there he hadn't already seen and done, but that was the one thing he could honestly claim to have faith in.

Barbossa's tired body propelled him towards a small inn- "The Horse's Mouth." He had a running tab with them; it wasn't like they ever expected him to square up. That was an interesting bit about being a pirate- the more your name was known, the less you were expected to share of your own accord. Of course, it also meant you'd be attacked and hunted down at least once a week, but that was the fun of it!

The innkeeper shot Barbossa a short wave of greeting from inside when he opened the door, but suddenly, the infamous pirate stopped dead in his tracks. Without warning, his right arm shot out, and he felt flesh within his grip. He whirled about, glaring.

"I jus' thought ye ought to pay a lady for payin' the likes of ye so much attention, is all." The same tavern whore from earlier looked up at him, half sneering, half curious to see what he would do. Barbossa looked at her thin wrist in his large, leathery hand, drew her hand out from his pocket, and suddenly a small smile traipsed across his lips. He yanked her closer, leaning down over her and drinking in the sight of her obviously wary eyes.

"Didn't I tell ye that you were in a bad way with those wand'ring hands of yours?" He smirked, now, his grip tightening.

She gasped before her expression turned to one of pain outright. He twisted her arm in his grasp, tracing the lines in her dirty palms with a delicate touch while feeling bones creak and crunch in his hold. Her knees buckled. She finally had the sense to nod.

"Aye, Captain!" Her lips trembled- she could take no more. He released her arm, which she drew back instantly, like a wounded dog. And then her gaze turned fiery.

"Ye'll pay for that! I'll see to it! Ye're nothing but a scurvy rat dog covered in the grittiest fish slop from the bottom of the ocean floor! 'Eaven will never 'ave ye, and 'Ell spit ye back upon these shores like a piece of festered meat! Pox upon thee, Captain! A pox upon th-"

_Crack!_ Barbossa pulled his pistol in to his lips and blew against the smoking barrel before he holstered his weapon. Those amongst him grew curious of the cursing, ill-fated wench that lay lifeless on the hard packed earth, the flower of a crimson oath left behind on her forehead. Barbossa shrugged and cast a glinting gaze over the gathered crowd.

"I told the unfortunate lass to let be the forbidden fruit, but alas! She was as tempted as sinful Eve to this weary garden." He quipped, gesturing with a long hand to himself. Everyone had a good laugh and returned to their business. With one last look at the body on the ground, he fished two-pence from his person, flicked it at the body, and retired to a room at the inn for some much needed sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Captain Barbossa slept like the dead. He didn't remember even dreaming the night before. He slept almost until dusk of the next night, blissfully uninterrupted. Even he had to concede- sometimes one just needed a good rest ashore.

When he rose, he groaned, limbs stiff from a lack of movement for twenty-three hours. He realized that somewhere along the line of his slumber, his sea legs had faded into the background; the physical illusion of roiling earth beneath his feet was gone. Stretching with a growling moan, he shook himself about a bit. His hand flew to the top of his head, suddenly. There was a distinct weight missing. Where was his hat? He didn't remember taking it off. Making a face, Barbossa looked around. It wasn't on the cot. It wasn't beside the cot. It wasn't under the cot. It was nowhere to be seen.

On the alert, the captain grabbed his pistol. Typically he liked to engage in swordplay with his foes, but he was still only half-awake and just not in the mood. He loaded a shot from the ammunition he kept on him at all times, and stalked out of the room. Someone had the audacity to steal from him? Well, he was going to have to buy them a drink before he taught them a lesson.

So it was to his great surprise that he nearly walked straight into another person who had, apparently, been gearing up to enter his room. He looked down his nose. Huge, frightened gray eyes stared back at him, and thin lips trembled beneath those.

Just a woman. He sighed. He was about to shove past her, until he noticed something.

Said woman was holding his hat.

"Wench, what are ye doin' with me hat?!" He roared, taking a step forward and snatching it back from her. She let it pass from her hands, and once the initial fright wore off of almost walking into the broad chest of a fearsome pirate wielding a loaded flintlock pistol, she relaxed a bit. She was quite used to this.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Captain. But I noticed, when ye got here, that t'was rather tattered, so I took it upon meself to fix it up a bit. I intended to return it before ye awoke." She inclined her head in apology.

Slightly taken aback, Barbossa blinked and looked at the object he held. Indeed, it had returned in far better condition than it had left in. The frayed edges were patched, and the ruined feathers, nearly bare from such harrowing speeds and throwback winds, had been painstakingly replaced. All in all, the hat looked like it was brand new. Barbossa supposed that extended its lifetime, as he had a certain fondness for said accessory, but at the same time, it had lost some of its allure. The apparent seamstress seemed to read his thoughts.

"T'will regain that salty charm before ye know it, Captain." She turned on her heel to leave, but he caught her by the shoulder and whirled her around, looming over her.

"Thankin' ye kindly, miss, but don't ever be raidin' the rooms of a sleeping pirate again. There are foul things in store for ye if ye do." He menaced.

She nodded, the crushing hand on her shoulder loosening suddenly, and she took the opportunity to disappear down the thin-walled hall. He watched her go, a thought rolling around in his mind. Her story didn't seem to hold up by any means. Of course, she had repaired his hat- that was a given. But there wasn't a soul on Tortuga with that much selflessness to spare. No man, woman, or child could say they had done more than one saintly deed for anyone, even family, in their lives. At least, not when it didn't involve some sort of compensation. From what he could see, there had been none for her. So what, then, was the storm-eyed seamstress's motive for her benevolent act?

Against his own intuition screaming at him to forget about it, he was intrigued. Barbossa turned back towards his room with a shrug, to inspect his shore stash of gold and other personal effects that he had possessed the night before.

* * *

><p>The Horse's Mouth was one of the larger inns on Tortuga, and as such, had its own tavern in the main room. This was where the captain found himself that evening, pleasantly alone with his thoughts and his ale. A lantern flickered above him, where it hung from a cross beam, as he took the time to scan a map for the subject of his next ocean excursion. He wasn't concerned about anyone else getting any ideas. There were perhaps three other sailors in the tavern besides him, all playing cards on the other side of the room, and anyway, it was just a simple, regular map of the charted islands. It wasn't as though he was in possession of a magical instrument or mystics chart (well, he was- he had several, in fact- but they weren't with him at the time, and weren't in the forefront of his mind).<p>

He lacked a compass and sextant at that moment, as the map had been an afterthought- something he always trusted to pass the time when without favorable company- and so settled to tracing possible routes and locations with his fingers, idly committing the ones that seemed most likely to heart. It was during this time that he caught someone's eye, and abruptly found another tankard of alcohol in front of him, vaguely aware that he had already drained his previous one. He glanced up in surprise.

"I trust the hat be treatin' ye well, Captain?" The same seamstress from before- who, apparently, wasn't a seamstress by trade at all- smiled at him. Internally, he raised a brow, but his face was passive. Was he being stalked? Well, if he was, it wasn't an unpleasant experience. Barbossa let a slow smirk settle on his face.

"Aye, that it is, miss. She sits true and proud atop my head. As the ale does, though a bit lower." He leaned back and took a long drink from the fresh tankard to illustrate his point, the feathers of his hat dancing in the small breeze the motion made. She nodded in satisfaction.

"'S good, isn't it?"

"What?"

"The ale." It was an odd bit of small conversation. His shoulders rose and fell with his disaffection.

"All drink is good, miss, when you've been at sea for so long." He replied, trying to be done with her. However, such a simple statement caused a reaction he did not intend.

In the soft glow of the lantern, he watched the woman's eyes light up at the mention of the sea. He knew that look well, from both male and female. Knew it in his own reflection, in fact. It was the call, as unheeded as hers was. It was always bittersweet when someone who longed for the waves was chained to the shore, but he supposed it was for the better. The fewer women on board ships, the better (though he could personally say he had no superstitious fear of them taking to the ocean, as it was).

The woman had been drying a tankard with a rag, but upon hearing this, she set it down on the rough wooden table and pulled out a chair, settling herself across from him. Propping her head on one hand, she looked at him dreamily. Barbossa had a brief moment of raised hackles, having had enough obnoxious whores follow him around for one stay on Tortuga.

"Do ye not drink at sea, Captain?" Her words were filled with wonder. His defenses dropped as his intrigue came rushing back. Here was a tavern wench whom he knew nothing about, who repaired his hat and gave him alcohol of her own free will, with murky motives, indeed. She was drawn to the sea, but sat stagnant on shore. And he felt no urge to have her. Out of his comfortable solitude he came, and Barbossa discovered he had put himself in the mood for story-telling. She was, at least, willing to listen. And maybe even to believe. Many could not even do him that much of a service anymore. Then again, he strangely didn't blame them. If he hadn't lived his stories, he wouldn't have believed them, either.

"I do, miss, but I cannot be drunk. 'S the rule of many a captain since Bartholomew." He wasn't inclined to mention that he kept alcohol on him- or, rather, under him- at all times, those days. He didn't miss the sudden harshness that entered her eyes at his words, but her expression remained one of interest.

"What's it like, Captain, to be a pirate?" The other hand came up beneath her chin, and she leaned forward, intent.

Barbossa could not restrain the bellow of laughter at this question, evoking a confused frown from his company. He laughed so hard tears almost came to his eyes. She made a face, top lip pulling up into a defensive snarl as her eyes glittered harshly from under a heavy brow.

"What's so funny?" Wiping at his eyes with his thumb, Barbossa grinned, leaning back and waving her question away from the air.

"Miss, might ye be havin' a name?" She looked deflated, doubting she would actually receive an answer to her earnest interrogation.

"Perhaps. Why does it matter?" A typical Tortugan cover.

"Because anyone who asks that question at such an age has no grasp on the concept of life itself." He looked down at his map and made another mental note. She did not leave, however. The sound of a card deck behind shuffled behind them reached his ears.

"Or, and begging your pardon again, Captain, did ye ever stop to consider the notion that some people are bound to their Fate before they have a chance to seek it for themselves?"

This stopped him cold. He looked up, laughter forgotten, and leaned forward, matching her angle. Critical blue eyes now studied his companion. Her gaze did not waver under his scrutiny. Fascinating.

She was of a strong build for a woman, possessing broad shoulders showed off by her simple shirt. No sailing man who had seen the ladies of exotic shores would venture to call her beautiful- pretty, maybe, but in a vague sort of way. Quite a shame, for her, if she was a woman of moral repute. Tortuga was one of those places where even temporary marriages occurred only among the physically blessed. She had a long, thin face, a bumpy nose, and thin-set lips. Still, he supposed she would have enough male company, seeing as her feminine attributes were nothing to scoff at. His eyes were dragged back up to her face, however, as he still-strangely- felt no desire for sexual companionship. There was something there, though, that he found quite refreshing in a member of the fairer sex. It was probably the reason why he didn't feel the need to shoo her off so he could be by himself. It reminded him of Elizabeth, in a way. Curiosity, one that would probably lead to her ruin, lurked beneath the surface of darkly fringed eyes. A thirst for seawater had already come to his attention. And some manner of intelligence, strange for a barkeep, was also in there somewhere, beneath the mop of dark wheat-colored hair that was caught up in a messy bun. Finally, he spoke again, this time, with seriousness.

"Aye, 'tis true, miss. And just how did ye come into possession of such a sentiment?" She cleared her throat with no sense of delicacy.

"It came to me on the wind one day, Captain."

So she was cryptic, too. He was warming up to a night of tale-telling quickly. Before he could reply, she bowed her head.

"Margerie."

"Eh?"

"My name is Margerie, Captain."

It would be his luck. He was beginning to wonder if he wasn't a puppet in someone's greater design, rather than a free man.

"Aye. A good name to be havin', miss. Strong. French name. Means 'pearl.'" He drawled dryly, more ale sliding over his lips.

"So…being a pirate?" He squinted at her. Obviously she was not meant to be on a ship. So why, then, was she so fascinated? Regardless, he had nothing but time to spare at that moment, and began to think of how to describe it.

"Being a pirate…is like being the lover of a mistress with a strange countenance. We be bound to the sea, by the forces of nature and humanity and what-have-you. She calls us, and we are made to listen. Our ships may pass from one man to the next, but she is always, and has always been more home than anywhere on land. We take what we can, and we give nothin' back. She can be a harsh mistress, treatin' us much the same as a worthless old dog, but she can also be our savior in a time of great desperation. Tis a deck of cards that she has personally seen to be stacked, and we must take our hand and play it wisely."

By the end of his speech, Margerie was wide-eyed with marvel. Wordless, for a moment, he watched her fingers begin, too, to trace pieces of the map between them, though she likely could not even read it.

"Please, Captain, iffin' it suits ye, please, tell me more." He found he could not deny such a request from the wench, and settled in.

So, for hours, he regaled her with stories of his adventures. From being revived by Calypso after death, to crossing back over to Davy Jones' Locker, he spoke, and she listened, moving only to oblige the tavern-wide requests for more rum and ale. Each time she returned to her seat, Margerie would have more questions. They covered the spectrum from broad to technical- did sailors really rely on the stars to guide them? How hard was it to obtain sea legs on one's first time out? How often was bilge water pumped on a regular basis? And so forth. He was impressed. He could count the number of women who could sit across from him and engage in intelligent conversation on one hand, and it secretly delighted him every time he stumbled across another. Captain Barbossa tended to have some kind of natural knack for crossing paths with the most unusual women on earth. And he liked it.

Finally, as the wicks in the lanterns began to burn out, he finished, yawning. He was still tired, and could use a bit more sleep. It was then that he realized he hadn't eaten in a day and a half.

"Would it be troublin' you, miss, to find an old pirate some food, and another round of ale?" She shook her head and stood to fetch his desires. That was when his eyes landed on something curious. He grabbed her wrist, suddenly, making her jump.

"Where did ye get this?" He asked, eyes fluttering between the object of his curiosity and her face. He could see her expression, which had remained one of soft openness, turn cold as she snatched her hand back.

"It has belonged to me for me entire life, Captain. Now I'll get yer food, and then I best be off to bed." She practically growled, protectively covering the ring on her right fourth finger with her other palm. He sat back, and watched her disappear into another room.

Apparently, his ability to become entangled with unusual women was alive and well.

Interesting indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

By his third day at port, he was itching for the sea once more. Hector Barbossa began to put his mind towards assembling a full crew for his next voyage, and began poking about at the docks, looking for the sailors that managed to pique his picky interest. Still, this itch wasn't as horrible as it usually was, though nothing short of death (and that had already happened) could keep him from his beloved mistress Sea. However, it helped to pass the time ashore with good company, although the feminine form of this company was a surprise.

Her sudden coldness at his question about her ring wore off by the next morning, and he decided against bringing it up again. It was of no importance to him. She greeted his requests for food and drink favorably, a regular feast laid out before him. They chatted about various subjects when she could spare a moment, as many other tavern patrons had their own requests, and she acquiesced to them accordingly.

Margerie did not wonder where Barbossa disappeared to that day, not because she wasn't curious, but because it was common sense that a pirate like him couldn't be ashore for very long before he craved the open water once again. She figured he would disappear, like all the others, out of port and beyond her sight within a couple of days. It was expected. It was common. And she was used to it. But she would surely miss his amicable company.

Evening had crept upon them when he returned to his familiar table, another round of story-telling to be had. The flickering tavern lanterns cast a happy glow across the full establishment, and from a distance, Barbossa watched Margerie flit from table to table, bare feet light with the thrill of work. Silently, he wondered how old she actually was. She wasn't as young as most of the women who held her job.

As if in answer to his question, the innkeeper appeared in his peripheral vision, standing next to him and proudly scanning his crowd as a shepherd looking over his flock.

"Margie tells me that you've been getting on with her."

"Aye, the miss seems to have a thing for tales of the sea." Barbossa cast him a sideways glance, wondering if perhaps she was his daughter or something of the like, but the innkeeper smiled and seated himself.

"It's not just tales. The waves are in her blood." The old man sat back and cracked his knuckles. Barbossa watched with a raised brow, and then leaned forward.

"Do tell."

"She's of pirate loins- she won't say whose. The townsfolk wonder if she even knows. But that's far from the point. Fact of the matter is Margie's got the call of the sea in 'er. How the woman has managed to stay aground for well nigh thirty-one years is unfathomable."

Barbossa processed this. That was a long time to be ashore when the ocean pleaded for a visit. He would have gone crazy, even as a young boy. He caught another glimpse of the woman, who was cracking a rather witty-looking joke to a gathering of sailors, when the table nearly split up under the force of raucous laughter. One, already drunk, fell out of his chair. She giggled, her entire face softening from its harshly cast angles into something much more feminine.

How in the world was she thirty-one? Thirty-one year old women were docile, married, mothering creatures. Either that, or angry, bitter old hags who raised whatever object was closest as a weapon. Had he not been the man he was, he would've pitied her. All alone, and at her age! A waste. But, as both a pirate and a man, he was no spring chicken, and personally preferred nightly company to the annoying frivolity of marriage.

"True enough. Thirty-one, you say? And not a husband in sight?" He murmured, curiosity getting the better of him. The innkeeper gave him an odd look.

"Hector, old mate, tell me you're not going soft on Margie's account?"

The captain easily ripped his gaze from the tavern wench and glared at the other man with a look steely enough to cut.

"Bite yer tongue, man! A'course I'm not going soft. That'll be the day, mate. The day I throw meself overboard and let the sharks have at me." He said it with such confidence that the innkeeper nodded in appreciation.

"Don't be blamin' me for such questions, Hector. You're the one who's been talkin' her up for two nights straight, and no one else. It leads a body to wonder."

A glint appeared in the eye of the weathered captain.

"Wonderin' leads to a shallow grave on a deserted island, mate. We both be knowin' that."

They shared a chuckle over of some shared memory from the innkeeper's seafaring days, and some long-dead pirate, before the conversation turned serious once more. The men gravitated towards each other, voices low in the heady noise of the tavern.

"So what, if any, be the story behind that ring of hers?" He couldn't help himself. He was attracted to shiny, expensive things. And a simple tavern woman didn't come by such a treasure on luck alone.

"Aye, thar be a tale. Says it belonged to her mother, who inherited it in the same, and so forth. Margie gets real defensive- sneaky, like- when asked about it. Says it's nobody's business but hers." The innkeeper plastered a grin to his face, and held his hand to the corner of his lips to hide the motion from prying eyes.

"I'm of the thought that it's cursed." This flattened the captain's interest.

"Don't be tellin' me about curses, mate. I've seen the likes of many, and I'd rather be done and finished with 'em." He leaned back, trying to be done with the subject, but the innkeeper shook his head.

"No, no. It's nothin' like that. Local legend has it that Margie is cursed to ne'er find a man, and be a lonely spinster forever, so long as that ring stays on her hand. They say she was cursed by an old sea-witch as a child, who envied her family and abilities to repair any a broken thing, and made it near impossible for the ring to be removed, except by a 'fish out of water'. She always shakes her head and claims it be 'nothin' but slop and rot,' however."

Barbossa leaned back and stared hard at Margerie across the room, who caught his gaze and smiled. He grinned back, but then turned away and whispered to his companion again.

"I don't think it's the ring that's cursed her to that fate." He said, gesturing to his own face. They indulged in a hearty laugh at her expense.

At this, the innkeeper excused himself, and within minutes, Margerie was seated across from the captain, unaware of the jabs poked at her visage previously. Barbossa was far from rueful.

"Evenin', Captain."

"Margerie."

"Any more adventurous tales for me tonight?" Her eyes glittered with excitement. He shrugged.

"Aye, but that all depends on whether there's a drink or two for me, miss."

* * *

><p>"Land's own, that's unbelievable, Captain!" She banged her fist on the table to back up her point. Barbossa gestured at her with his tankard, a reddened hue creeping across his nose and cheeks from the warm buzz he had conjured up.<p>

"Arr, ye best start believin' it, miss, because it all be true." He grinned devilishly, and she was still unsure of whether or not he was being truthful. Margerie tucked a loose strand of her hair behind one ear.

"Ye expect me to take the notion that ye once spent a week trying to romance a nobleman's daughter into bedding you, just to steal a single gold chain from her in the morning as truth?" Barbossa was amused by the look on her face.

"Aye, miss, and what be so hard about it, after hearin' about my trysts with Sparrow and his uncanny pull for the spirit things most men would rightly fear?"

"The idea that any noblewoman would have ye."

Hector took a breath to reply before her insult registered fully, and his face fell into a deadpan set while his mouth snapped closed. Margerie's shoulders shook with trilling mirth. He could've gotten back at her, or even disciplined her, but he didn't deny she was incredibly right. In fact, he prided himself on the challenge it had been.

It was during this time that he took a moment to observe his surroundings. When had it gotten so quiet? He hadn't realized how long they'd been talking. They were the only ones left in the tavern. He cast a glance at the small window. Odd. There was only the light of the moon- no lanterns.

Something wasn't right.

As if on cue, the sound of a woman's scream and a slam reached their ears. Margerie's face contorted into a look of fear, and she immediately reached up and extinguished the lantern. Quickly, she set to the same task for all of them, until the tavern was engulfed in near-darkness. The rough-hewn window let a small portion of light trickle in; enough so that the captain's blue eyes had something to focus through. He'd always had a slight weakness when it came to his vision in the dark. Margerie moved through the blackness like a snake through the underbrush, however, and was suddenly by his side.

"He's here."

"Who's here?"

"Shh! Not so loud." She was tempted to clamp a hand over the pirate's mouth, but figured she would only end up being bitten, or worse. Instead, she tugged on his arm, indicating for him to rise and follow her. He did, stepping as carefully with his peg leg as possible. It did make quite a noise, regardless.

They reached the door of the inn that led outside. Margerie pressed herself against the wall, trying to become invisible as she shimmied the object open just a sliver. The pair peered through the crack in silence.

Barbossa felt goosebumps race to cover his flesh. Out of everything he'd seen in his life, and all the places he'd been, the sight of Tortuga with completely empty streets and no signs of life made his list of eerie things he never wanted to bear witness to again. It was lucky the moon was full- otherwise they would've seen next to nothing. But it rose high and mighty above the island, illuminating the scene before them.

The dust settled in the streets. In the distance, a wooden door slammed and bounced against its frame. A light was extinguished in the window of a building of typical French build across the way. Where Tortuga's endless party usually drowned out the sounds of the crashing waves, both pirate and woman could hear them clearly. Margerie dropped her voice low as she shifted her position, almost between the leaning arms of the captain, but not overly worried about such a predicament at that moment.

"There is a man. A pirate. He makes port here once a month with a crew that even the likes of us despise. He comes bearing grand tales and promises of adventure, but everyone who goes with him ne'er returns. He is the devil, trapped in a man's body, or so the story goes."

She could feel Barbossa's breath grow heavier on the top of her head, as though these words excited him. Suddenly, Margerie became acutely aware of just what situation she had gotten herself into. Before her, just beyond the flimsy door, a fearsome creature and his band of thugs would come marching up from the shore at any moment. One that slit throats for fun, regardless of profit. And behind her, one of the most feared pirates to ever live, who would have no qualms over killing her if he felt the moment required such finesse. She wasn't sure which end she preferred to meet. Nonetheless, she stayed her nerves and continued in a raspy whisper.

"He says he be looking for someone. He wants to become the most revered pirate of all time. And he'll take that title by force, if necess'ry."

The top of a plumed hat popped up below the line of the hill, and slowly, a man rose to prominence in their vision, walking tall and proud. A band of detestable looking men trailed behind him, eyes flickering around and hands on their weapons, ready to taste fresh blood.

The ringleader- obviously this "fearsome pirate"- strode forward, standing in the middle of the street and looking about, hands on his hips. Barbossa could see he was very young- well, compared to him, anyway. He looked arrogant. Too sure of himself. A poor trait to possess, in his opinion. His clothes were of fine silks and linens, his boots of the highest quality. It was an obvious ostrich feather in his hat. Barbossa studied his face for a moment. He looked vaguely touched by the sea, but didn't seem to have that rugged, element-ravaged visage he expected. Dark eyes the color of mud and honey calmly surveyed the layout. He stalked to the middle of the street.

"People of Tortuga! Listen to what I ask from your cowering, cowed positions of hiding!"

Barbossa growled under his breath. Already this kid was getting on his nerves. He felt for the sword on his hip. A pistol wouldn't do for this one. It wouldn't be right for a bullet to taste blood that just begged to be spilled everywhere.

"The sea has brought me news of the passing of Blackbeard! His ship has been commandeered, and his sword of legend- taken. I believe the pirate to have completed this daunting feat to be among you! Show him to me, and I shan't harm a one of you. Refuse, and only anguish will beset you! Tortugans, give up Captain Hector Barbossa!"

From beneath him, Margerie sucked in a breath. He felt her tense, trying to become one with the door, just to get away from him. He didn't move, however. He wanted to see more of this comedic show.

Surprisingly, not a single voice rose against him, and not a single person came forward. This was Tortuga- betrayal ran rampant. Just the way it should. But terror was a powerful master. The dark complexioned pirate's skin darkened with rage, after a moment.

"Show yourself, you bloody bilge-rat!" He roared, and Barbossa bit back a chuckle. Still, nothing happened. He kicked up dust with his expensive boot in a fit of unrestrained anger, and tore about, over turning a few barrels and crates. Suddenly, he stopped, and the pair behind the door strained to see what he had found.

"Little lass, a child like yourself should ne'er be out at such an hour." He cooed, voice dripping with sick blasphemy. He reached out, and dragged the small girl to the center of the street. Margerie trembled.

"Sydney…" She breathed, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to get Barbossa to look down at the woman crouched against the doorframe. Her fingernails dug into the wood, leaving yellow scratch marks, and one dripped blood from a splinter. She looked nervous.

"Child, do you know the location of Captain Barbossa?" The pirate crooned. Sydney burst into tears, clutching her rag doll tighter. She was no older than five. Margerie tensed. Barbossa laid a warning hand on her shoulder and leaned down to whisper in her ear, eyes never leaving the disturbing spectacle.

"Don't make a move, miss. This has only one ending for her, either way."

Indeed, the pirate knelt before the child, expression one of near-genuine concern.

"Come now, lass, dry those tears. Just tell me, where be the captain?"

Sydney shook her head and blubbered something that they couldn't quite make out. The pirate nodded in understanding, and looked up and around at the dark windows he could make out vague faces in.

"The little one doesn't know where the captain is! For shame." He clucked his tongue at them.

Before anyone could react, Sydney's small body tipped over onto the ground, lifeless, her doll coated in her own blood and limply lying in her paling hand. The pirate replaced his saber after casually flicking the blood off of it, and checked his nails, giving people a chance to process what had just happened.

Barbossa's hand was tight over Margerie's lips, though she had stopped her own scream before it had erupted, having the sense to understand the urgency of silence. She turned her head away from the sight, fighting tears, but unable to stop them. He pursed his lips, expression grim. This _pirate_- he hated to have to call him that- was nothing more than a soulless killer. The slaughter of innocent children by any man was not condonable, and certainly nothing to be proud of. Slowly, he removed his palm from Margerie's mouth, feeling her trembling lips stay themselves, and laid it on the hilt of his weapon. The wench seemed torn, almost drawing back into his chest. He fought the urge to push her away. Now was not the time to be concerned with personal boundaries. Still, he gave her credit- she was looking out the door again, body or no body. Margerie seemed to possess an ability, even as a creature of the land, that most women never did. She could look beyond the gore to see the situation for what it was. Briefly, he wondered why, then the blasted pirate took his attention away again. Turned around, gesturing with his fist.

"Do you see, you damnable people, what you have done!? You and you alone are responsible for the death of an innocent young girl! I ask only once more- give me Hector Barbossa, or end your weary lives tonight."

It wasn't necessary to ask. The captain elbowed Margerie aside, who looked at him with a mixture of respect, fear, and wonder, and burst through the door, uneven stride as steady as possible.

"Captain Hector Barbossa, at your service." He forced a gentleman's grin, mockingly bowing to the pirate, though he was tensed for confrontation. The pirate leaned back, drinking in the sight of his opponent, and then smirked.

"Burn the place. Leave no one alive." He murmured to his crew. The grin that had settled on Barbossa's lips fell like a stone off the edge of a high cliff.

With a roar of adrenaline, the loathsome pirate crew took off, running amuck through the streets of Tortuga and looking for people to gut, while Captain Hector Barbossa and the mysterious pirate stood motionless amongst the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

As the crew of the young pirate began to rip into the very flesh of Tortuga, he and Captain Barbossa sized each other up in the middle of the street. The younger man's smirk never left his face- in fact, as he ordered his crew and watched the captain's reaction, it only grew wider.

"So. You're the legendary Captain Hector Barbossa. The demon of the sea himself. Mutineer, victim of a curse, resurrected, undertaken all manner of queer and heavy quest…and now you've killed the great Blackbeard and taken his ship and sword! Delightful." The younger pirate strode closer, through the street, as though he owned the place. He leered at Barbossa, who inclined his head, but kept his gaze fixed on his target.

"Aye, that all be true. But, I didn't catch your name." A step to the right to match the other pirate's step to the left. The younger man chuckled, changing directions. A member of his crew ran past, pursuing a teenage boy with an unsheathed cutlass.

"I'm surprised you don't already know it!"

Barbossa leaned back, a trite expression trespassing on his face.

"My sincere apologies, but I do not."

With a flourish, the younger man bowed.

"Captain Bartholomew Roberts the fourth, in your presence." He looked up, obviously giddy to have revealed his ancestry.

Indeed, this surprised Barbossa, but he kept his surprise silent. He assumed this was a lie. An alias. It couldn't be more fact than fiction, by any accounts. He cocked his head, and then gave the pirate his signature wide-eyed stare, feeling the occasion warranted it.

"Never heard of ye."

Anger flushed the younger man's face to a dark red. He grew rigid. Barbossa could see it coming a mile away. He readied himself, as well. With a roar, the younger pirate drew his cutlass and flew at Barbossa, crossing blades with more rage than sense.

* * *

><p>Margerie had no time to worry about the old pirate she'd taken up company with. Once he pushed passed her, it was every man-and woman- for themselves. In fact, by the time she turned around and stopped watching out the door, he was out of her mind with nothing left behind but a quick prayer. She knew Bartholomew's swordsmanship- many a time had she seen it since he'd began coming around. He was good. <em>Very<em> good. But it was obvious to her, by reputation alone, that the better swordsman was Barbossa, by a landslide. She was almost positive he would be the victor. Who knew? Perhaps the world would be rid of Bartholomew forever.

Margerie looked around the tavern in the muddled half-light. Fires were being set and lanterns were burning again, so the people could see to defend themselves. She moved quickly through the darkness, keeping low and away from any openings, so she wouldn't be discovered. Those pirates would take her ring, and perhaps, her with it, regardless of whether she took it off or not.

She didn't know where she was going. Fear drove her, in part, but suddenly, she stopped in her tracks and crouched, pressing a hand to her heaving chest and feeling the heartbeat beneath. It was wild with adrenaline. And not only the type that sprung from terror.

Margerie hated to say it, even after what happened to Sydney, but she was enjoying herself.

"Bloody hell. The old seadog's worn off on me." She muttered under her breath, disgusted by her revelation. She was a woman of the _land_! Her chance to sail had taken off a long time ago, and it wasn't coming back. She ground her teeth together in thought, abruptly remembering with a relieving start that she was supposed to be escaping to safety…somewhere. Although she had no idea how far Bartholomew's crew had moved inland.

The inn had a back exit that led to a small, fenced-in piece of land where they kept their chickens and pigs. Creeping along the wall in the darkness, it was to this enclosure that Margerie headed. Once outside, she could easily hop the fence and disappear into the night, Captains Barbossa and Roberts all but forgotten. This was Tortuga. Her birthplace. There it was all for one and that was that. She reached the door unscathed, and slowly opened it, peeking around it in all directions to be certain she was alone. This was fine. This was supposed to happen. She should have no qualms about preserving her own life and running for the hills.

Damn hills. Rolling like that. Reminded her of the sea... Margerie started to cross the small animal pen, but halted, something planted inside her mind. This was not how it was supposed to go. She just needed her fill of sailor-stories. That was it. There had been nothing more to her acquaintance with Captain Hector Barbossa. She hadn't even known him a full two days.

So why, then, did it feel so much like she should start thinking like him?

Margerie sighed, glancing at a pig that simply oinked at her. She wrinkled her nose.

"This is going to end badly, Sawyer." She said softly to the pig. The pig snuffled and returned to sniffing around the pen, as though nothing was happening just on the other side of the tavern.

Before she could stop and logically rethink her decision, Margerie turned and ran back inside the inn.

* * *

><p><em>Clink!<em> Their swords crossed again. Barbossa glared at his opponent, who responded with a slash against his right side. The elder captain parried the blow. It was child's play, really. He was toying with the enemy, going on the defensive, letting himself be pushed back. That way, he could prove once and for all who was the most fearsome pirate when he dealt the final blows.

Another young child ran past him, screaming as a thug chased her with a broadsword. Thinking quickly, Barbossa grunted, and turned into the attack of his opponent, dodging the sword. Deftly, he reached out and yanked her behind him, temporarily out of harm's way. Hector glanced up, and noted the thick cords from which a shop sign dangled above the thug's head. Curious to see if his assumptions were correct, he flicked the sword of Triton up towards the plaque casually. The crewman who had been pursuing the child growled and raised his own sword to cleave Barbossa in half, but as commanded, the heavy wooden sign dislodged from its stricken rigging ropes and came crashing down on the burly pirate's head, effectively silencing him. The little girl ran off, and Barbossa swiped at Bartholomew with a cheeky expression, carefully stepping over the body.

Bartholomew's eyes locked on the broadsword making teasing passes at him with an obvious envy.

"So it's true." He whispered, temporarily slowing down.

"Aye, but ye shan't be havin' yer turn at it." Barbossa rolled his eyes when Bartholomew flipped his hair and snorted.

"We'll see, old man."

Bartholomew took a step into Barbossa and roundhoused his cutlass, blade whistling through the air audibly. Barbossa brought his own weapon up to knock the blow away. So. The kid was stronger than he looked. A reverse cut forced him to concentrate. He took a step back, whirling around to go on the offensive, deciding to give the young whelp hell. They didn't call him the demon of the sea for nothing.

* * *

><p>Margerie sighed comfortably as she darted down the inn stairs. She had her own room, as did the innkeeper, and had changed her clothes to the only other outfit she possessed. A dress, she imagined, would be a hindrance to what she was planning. Pulling her hat down low over her face, Margerie once again made a beeline for the back exit. She was halfway there when she heard the footsteps that meant she was not alone. On the offensive, she looked around, terrified and yet thrilled for the adventure at the same time.<p>

"By the King, I've lost me already addlepated mind." She whispered to herself again, for lack of anything better to do, as she looked around for the source of the footsteps.

Nothing but silence, and her own breathing.

The door behind her flew open, and Margerie screamed, nerves alight with sensation. She immediately moved to run, but the huge man caught her around the middle with a devious chuckle. Margerie kicked and struggled as he easily lifted her weight from the floorboards, moving her about as though she were an empty potato sack.

"Unhand me, you bastard son of a sea slug!"

"Oh, a feisty one, aren't we?" His shaved head would've glittered in the moonlight from a window, but the tattoos dulled the reflection.

For just a moment, Margerie's mind went dead. Her body still thrashed like a butterfly in a spider's web, but it was just as useless. He dragged her backwards into the kitchen, and began talking about all the naughty things he was going to do to her, before he killed her.

As she was dragged towards the back of the kitchen, her mind kicked into full gear again when it was jogged by a familiar sight. Carefully, the thug's chapped lips already trailing disaffected kisses across her neck and jaw, Margerie reached out for the fork, slipping it inside her sleeve.

Had Hector witnessed this, he would have had a good chuckle. Something about it was so familiar- although, his hostage had hidden a serrated knife in her skirts on a ship, but nevertheless, the sight would've amused him and sent him warily down memory lane.

By the slop bucket, where uneaten or unused food was placed to be fed to the pigs, the pirate stopped, and whirled the tavern wench around in his arms, who looked surprised, but plastered a look of reception on her face with a coy grin. Her right hand came up to cup his cheek. And then her left. She stroked her fingertips down his jawline, teasingly. He crowed in joy- perhaps he wouldn't have to work so hard for his prize, after all!

As soon as the pirate's guard was down, she struck. Margerie slid the utensil forward in her sleeve, and with the mighty cry of a person who does not know their own strength in a perilous situation, she drove the fork into the neck of her assailant. Blood sprayed forth, covering her and the entire kitchen while he fought uselessly to cover the wound. Margerie ripped the fork out, eyes fierce with self-preservation. Tortuga was a tough place. One didn't survive for over three decades as an unmarried, defender-less female barkeep without learning a few defensive tricks.

The pirate howled in pain, already not long for the world even as he tore at his throat, trying to cover the wound and stop the bleeding. Margerie stumbled backwards, watching the spectacle of murder for the first time by her hand, but not much caring. It was just that the adrenaline spike had left her legs shaky beneath her. She backed into the wall, and caught her breath as the screaming thug stilled and quieted, slumping to the floor. Looking at the mangled fork, and deciding she was better off with a cooking knife, she grabbed the nearest sharp object- what luck! A cleaver!- and ran for the exit as fast as she could.

She broke out into the pen, frantically looking about for danger, and then, with one last quick pat on Sawyer's head, climbed over the low fence and started down the hill, looking for the safest un-safe place she could find, and praying silently that her decision would be the right one, even for a brief while.

* * *

><p>A vaguely septime parry brought him nearly nose to nose with his enemy, and they both growled menacingly. Barbossa watched as Bartholomew's eyes focused on his sword once again, instead of watching him. He slashed low- regardless of only having one leg, Barbossa was still limber and quick enough to jump the blow and return a heavy cleave, barely deflected. Bartholomew panted, tiring quickly under the elder pirate's greater strength, of body, will, and sword. However, Barbossa wasn't the least bit exhausted- in fact, he chuckled. He was greatly enjoying this, but he supposed it was time for it to come to an end.<p>

Clashing metal on metal ensued as they danced a deadly jig through the streets. Barbossa used his real leg to propel himself off a large barrel and sent it ricocheting towards Bartholomew, who could not avoid it, and was thusly bowled over by it. With a roar, the elder pirate cleaved his enchanted broadsword down towards the sweat-soaked face of the younger, but missed, as the nimble Batholomew rolled out of the way, only losing a small chunk of hair. He was on his feet again, his footwork foreign to Barbossa, but that was of no matter. He was winning, as it were.

There. Again, Bartholomew could not wrench his gaze from the blade of Barbossa's sword, and knowing this, he waved it in the air hypnotically. People ran about- Tortugans and thugs- and the order of who was chasing whom always varied. It seemed to him, however, that the Tortugans were pushing the unsavory company back. However, boxed in between two high stone and stucco balconies, he couldn't tell much about what was going on with the rest of the fighters. But it didn't matter. He was about to finish the human-sized wart off.

A swipe that connected with Bartholomew didn't kill him, but it did injure him. Finally, he realized his folly- he was too attracted to the allure of such a legendary weapon. Raising a palm to his face, he wiped the brunt of the blood away, but it just kept flowing.

"Now thar be the face of a pirate!" Barbossa exclaimed, looking at the long slash mark that ran from the young man's nose to his earlobe with approval. Bartholomew glared at him, poised for one more attack. He raised his sword with a battle cry, And Barbossa would have, too…

…had a third, very unexpected yelp not joined the fray.

"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrggghhh!"

_Clash! Ting! Thud. _

Barbossa rolled his eyes and sheathed his broadsword, the battle temporarily finished for him. Shaking his head, he hobbled over to the balcony and looked at the rope dangling in front of him, grabbing hold of it and staring at the groggy form that shook itself back to full consciousness. He waited until he could see the familiar eyes peering about, confused.

"Jack. I was not expectin' to see ye again, so soon. Could ye just not stand to be away from me?" He raised an eyebrow at Captain Jack Sparrow, who violently shook his head and looked down at the rumpled body below him, flat out unconscious.

"Uh…sorry, mate."

"Don't be, he was a dirty, empty-headed excuse for a sailor." Barbossa waved his free hand in dismissal as he threw the rope towards Jack, who caught it awkwardly, and proceeded to fall off the balcony anyway, knocking the body down with him. Bartholomew groaned, however, and Barbossa was very tempted to end his life while he lay on the ground. Not surprisingly, however, Jack distracted him, popping up within his personal bubble of space and flashing him that damnably ridiculous smile.

"In answer to your earlier question, mate…I just figured I'd drop by."

Suppressing a groan at the earnest pun set forth by the other legendary captain, Barbossa turned back to his previous task, reaching for his pistol.

But instead of firing a killing shot, his brow knitted together, and he frowned heavily.

Bartholomew was nowhere to be seen.

"Captain Barbossa-" Jack started, but the elder pirate cut him off, whirling around and staring him down.

"You lost him, you find him!" He bellowed, anger rising. He did not like to be interrupted during a battle. Especially not by the likes of Jack Sparrow. Jack shrugged, cocking his head like a dog.

"But, Hector, I-"

"Arrrrgh! Get yer scrawny, low-life, bilge-drinking self moving! _GO FIND HIM!_"

To illustrate his rage and desire for Jack to get a jump on the situation, he unsheathed his sword and swung at the befuddled pirate, barely missing him. The tip of the broadsword rested right between the braids of his beard. Jack's adam's apple visibly jumped in his throat, and his wide eyes flitted between the sword and its stone-faced wielder. Jack raised his hands in a motion of surrender, making a face that looked like a cross between a sneer and a sneeze at the blade.

"…I'll get right on that, mate." He smiled falsely and scurried off, poking about the strangest places possible for a renegade, injured young pirate. Barbossa yelled after him, cupping his mouth with one hand for added volume.

"And finish him off this time!"

Looking from his sword to the faces of two members of Bartholomew's crew, who had just run into the same clearing, Barbossa began the downhill pursuit after them, craving more blood and cackling endlessly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

After sailing for weeks in high spirits, and heaving to shore in the same manner, Hector Barbossa was now the victim of a morale so low that it could've dragged him to the bottom of the sea. He silently cursed Jack Sparrow for this- otherwise his dignity would have been intact.

Morning was rising high over the victor Tortuga when the two captains sat together in an untouched tavern, drinking cheap rum and each getting lost in their own thoughts. The rogue crew had mostly been dealt with, and those who hadn't been killed or taken prisoner on the spot had disappeared, probably back to their ship, which was missing from port by the light of dawn. The _Queen Anne's Revenge_ was being heavily guarded while she sat innocuously, getting fixed up and waiting for Hector's return. The fires had been put out, the dead collected and accounted for on both sides, and already, Tortuga had recovered and was beginning its partying ways once more.

But Bartholomew Roberts the fourth had not been among the dead or captured. Barbossa knew. He'd personally checked.

As expected, Jack had done more screaming than anything else. The man was useless when he wasn't showing off for anyone! He took down three, perhaps five thugs by necessity, as opposed to Hector's near fifteen, before the attentions of a young woman had caused him to go into overdrive, and he started knocking heads around like a bloodthirsty savage. At this, Hector was impressed. He'd also found yet another use for his false leg- it was great for waiting around corners and bashing skulls with! He smirked at the memory and busied himself with his drink.

"So. Hector. Old friend-" Jack started, but was cut off again.

"No."

"But I haven't even-"

"Whatever it is, the answer's no."

"No?"

"Aye."

"So, yes then?"

"No."

"Definitely no?"

"Aye."

"But really yes!"

"No!"

"Hector, do yourself a favor, mate, and make up your mind!"

Barbossa glared at Jack sidelong, who shrugged.

"…Shut yer hatch."

Jack seemed to contemplate doing this for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Every time it slipped open, however, Hector would growl at him, until finally, he got tired of Jack's antics, and slammed his palm down on the table.

"Dammit, Jack! What is it that you be wantin' this time, hm? Out with it! Would it be the _Revenge_ to replace the _Pearl_, now?" At this, Jack's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Captain Barbossa…_mate_…if I recall correctly, as it was some time ago…you were the one who led the mutiny against me, that one time. _You_ were the one who crewed up on my _Pearl, you_ were the one who got all mixed up in _my_ affairs, and you were the one that saw me precious _Pearl_ taken, as it were. So, as the facts so clearly point out, Hector, you have no reason to be angry with me, even if I were after your ship. Savvy?"

Hector stared at Jack for a long while, who leaned back in his chair. Unfortunately, the pirate before him was not to be underestimated, as always. He thought he would've learned that by now. And, in fact, Jack was one-hundred percent right. All his problems stemmed from the singular act of mutiny, many years before. But, they had mostly been accounted for and avenged. He had the sword, he had the ship, he had the treasures that had been on the ship, and the maps and locations to so many more. Still, though, it felt as if something were missing.

"Aye, except ye lost that bloomin' idiot from last night on me."

"…Well….yes, I suppose there is that." Jack pointed out with a wiggle of his fingers.

"S'nough for you to be in my poor standing." Barbossa assured with a nod.

"Shackle me and take me away, Hector. As a former member of the _Revenge's_ press-ganged crew, I'm well acquainted with her stunning accommodations. Going by this logic, I'm she must have a fine brig."

Dramatically, Jack held out his wrists, as though waiting for cuffs. Barbossa felt his face betray him with a tiny, knowing smile. He sipped at his rum and leaned forward, resting his weight on his elbows, while Jack made a face at the sudden closeness and tipped his chair back on two legs.

"Nice try, but I'm no fool. Talk is just that- talk. And I shan't be trustin' yours. So ye won't be goin' anywhere near my _Revenge_, Jack. However, ye've piqued my interest. What _is_ it that you be wantin' so badly?"

Jack gestured to his companion to wait as he loosed a small, red velvet pouch from his belt. It looked expensive- not that it had been paid for with legal means, anyway. It was lined with satin and had a golden floss draw string. The younger pirate looked about, as though he was afraid of being watched, before he tugged on the string and drew out the pouch's contents so that Barbossa could see just what it was that had driven them together again.

The _Black Pearl_ valiantly fought the waves from inside her miniscule prison. Barbossa's eyes narrowed. So it was true, then! By the time he'd set foot-and peg- on the _Queen Anne's Revenge_, there had been talk of a single sailor that had taken off with Blackbeard's prized possessions that weren't sword nor chest of gold. He'd inquired about just what these things were, and his suspicions about the hobby of the dead pirate were confirmed. He wondered what had become of the Pearl after he loosed himself from her rigging, assuming something otherworldly had been done with her, but he'd never seen one of the final resting places of these ships with his own eyes. Now his former vessel floated before him, small enough to hold in the palm of his hand. He reached out for it, but Jack snatched it back, petting the bottle lovingly.

"My _Pearl_, mate. Not yours." Barbossa made a face.

"And just what am I going to do with her, in that condition, Jack?" He made a motion for Jack to hand the bottle over, and, reluctantly, he did.

Peering into the bottle, Barbossa took stock of what was going on. The ship seemed to be captained by something or someone he couldn't see- had all of the crew really perished that night? Suddenly, he heard a familiar sound from inside the bottle, and watched with a hidden satisfaction as his beloved pet monkey swung from line to line across the rigging. Without warning, the monkey seemed to stop, and look around, and Hector would swear that he was looking directly at him, though he didn't know if one inside the bottle could see out or not. Still, he chuckled.

"Good to see you, Jack."

"It's nice to see you, too, Hector." Jack Sparrow genuinely smiled at him from across the table. Barbossa raised an eyebrow.

"The monkey, not you."

"Oh." The brunette deadpanned, entirely deflated.

"And what do ye think I can do about…this?" He watched as Jack leaned even farther back in his chair.

"Well, the _Pearl_, which is still the indentured servant of a small glass bottle that holds no rum of any sort, and is henceforth useless to me, is in need of your ship's assistance."

"How so?"

"I have reason to believe that you are in possession of a map, of sorts, left to you after the death of one unfortunate Blackbeard."

"Don't be wastin' my time, Jack. I've got a lot of maps to a lot of places. Narrow down the one ye want, and I'll see if we can't be comin' to some sort of agreement." He eyed his monkey inside the glass once again. Perhaps that's what was missing from his life. Jack's lips twitched.

"It's not just any map, mate. It's one of those maps that you can use only if you're sure of what you're looking for. It's been said that the image on the map itself rearranges and disappears at will, confusing sailors and getting them hopelessly lost until they die of some rather…inhumane fate."

Truth be told, the elder captain was growing more and more excited by the second. A magic map…but to what? As though reading his thoughts, Sparrow seemed to loom in his vision, voice heavy with the solemnity and weight of his reveal.

"Hector…you seem to be in possession of _the_ map."

Hector blinked.

"What map?" At this, Jack's high-flying dramatics dropped though the floor.

"_The_ map!"

"What bloody map?!"

Jack shushed him, alarmed, and looked around again, that quirky way of his not settling right with the elder pirate, before he motioned to Hector to lean closer, which he did, reluctantly. Jack fought with his companion's hat for a moment, batting at the feathers, until he watched Hector's hand settle on his pistol. Dropping his arms casually, he whispered in Barbossa's ear.

"Mate, you have the map- the only known map- that leads to the richest place ever to be claimed by the sea. A place so legendary that any man who finds it will go down in history as the greatest sailor to ever live. This map is the pathway to the city of Atlantis. Savvy?"

Carefully arranging his poker face to hide the rush of adrenaline from the mere words, Hector extracted himself from Jack's invasion of his personal space, and rubbed his right hand over his jaw. Suddenly, he crossed his arms, thinking.

"Jack…ye come to me askin' for somethin' ye know no man, pirate or upstandin' seaman, would be so eager to give up, _and_ ye come here, knowin' the history between us. So I must be askin'- what's in this for me?" Hector squinted, really trying to figure out the answer before the younger pirate could reply. He felt like it would either be very, very good, or a waste of his time. Jack smirked, pausing to take a long drink of rum.

"Gibbs has an entire fleet of ships- well, sans three that we so very unsuccessfully experimented on using a crossbow, a goat, and a myriad of other seemingly integral objects and assorted trifling trivialities- and I am well prepared to give you half of them, in exchange for safe and speedy passage on…_your_ ship…to the location granted by the map, which will never leave your sight." He ground out the last part, as though it pained him to say it. Hector chuckled, stroking his beard.

"Ye'd best be plannin' to offer more than that."

"Three quarters, then."

"Try again."

"We split the treasure. An equal share, just like you always wanted." Jack smiled sweetly- mockingly- spreading his arms wide while still clutching his rum bottle in one hand.

"Yer still wastin' my time."

"Fine. You get three-quarters of the fleet, half the treasure, all the apples you could ever want, an even bigger hat, you can do with me what you will whilst I am aboard your ship, so long as it does not involve dismemberment, disfiguration, or bodily harm of any sort, and I'll see to it that your name is the one that goes down in history forever more, and all that drivel and rot, as the greatest pirate to ever live, and so forth. Now. Do we have an accord, Hector?" For once, Jack looked completely serious, extending his hand for a deal-making shake.

Hector closed his eyes in thought, his brow knitting together. This was stupid. He could set sail as soon as possible, make for Atlantis, and not have to deal with any of Jack's antics, while keeping the _Pearl_ safely tucked away in a bottle, to never bother him again.

"Those are all fine things, Jack, but nothin' I couldn't acquire on my own, given a bit of time. Why should I be helpin' ye, anyway?"

Jack looked triumphant, and Hector's stomach flip-flopped uncomfortably. He knew that look. That was the look Captain Jack Sparrow used when he knew he'd won the battle, because of his trump card. The man always seemed to have one. And it never ended well for him when he was the victim of that crazed smile.

"Because I'm the only one who knows how to make the map work, mate."

Hector stared at him for a long time, sizing up the younger pirate, going over all the possible scenarios and outcomes of such a journey with Jack in his mind, and coming up with a list of reasons why he should listen to his gut and just leave Jack stranded on Tortuga. But, after all the many years he'd known Sparrow, he could read the majority of his intent like an open book, and he was almost positive that Jack was telling the truth. He wouldn't have come without knowing he had something Hector would end up wanting or needing. He wasn't that empty-headed. Inclining his head with a scowl of loss, Hector sighed.

"Alright, Jack. We'll get yer precious _Pearl_ out of the bottle. But if one thing goes wrong, and it's yer fault, I'll hang yer head from my bowsprit." Hector looked at the bottle on the table, and felt dread fill him from his toes to his head. Something about this was a bad idea.

And he still didn't know what.

Jack looked very pleased as he shook hands with Barbossa, who rolled his eyes in detachment. Hector moved to stand, wobbling a bit as his stump had fallen asleep from sitting so long. Draining his rum and slamming the bottle on the table, he watched with an amused eye as Jack tipped his chair as far back as he could. He began to pass the younger pirate and make for the door, hobbling, but a slow smirk crossed his face.

"Oh, and Jack?"

"Yes?"

Hector swiftly hooked his wooden leg against the leg of the chair and jerked backwards, tipping a surprised looking Sparrow onto the floor in a heap. He chuckled, and then started for the door.

"Captain Barbossa! We had an agreement!" Jack foundered about on the floor, trying to disentangle himself from the chair.

"Aye, but yer not aboard me ship yet." He grinned at the look on Jack's face, and with that, made his way out into blinding and inviting daylight.

* * *

><p>"You there!"<p>

Margerie looked around, confused.

"Oy, wot's in your 'ead, mate? Coral an' kelp?" The man addressing her looked angry. Margerie cleared her throat and tried to deepen her voice believably.

"Uhh…sorry, _mate_…I, uh…"

"I don't roightly care! Get ta' scrapin' down th' hull, you bloody, good fer nothin' landlubber!"

Margerie gulped. This had been a terrible, terrible idea. She'd fled down the beach, to where she'd heard through the grapevine that the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ was temporarily careened for general maintenance, as Barbossa wanted his new acquisition in good-as-new condition. Tortuga's drydocks were full, and he wasn't known for his patience in the majority of matters, so he'd simply beached her at high tide, and had the members of his crew who were staying on for the next voyage start the cleaning and repairs.

"Uhm…aye. I'll get on that." She murmured, approaching the vast, looming figure of the ship's hull gingerly. She had this off-kilter fear, suddenly, that it would right itself and crush her beneath it, but shaking her head, she settled in beside a small blond boy, and tried to look as though she knew what she was doing. He turned his head and grinned at her.

"You're new here, aren't you?" He didn't sound unfriendly.

"Yes. This will be me first time at sea." She admitted with her man's voice. The boy looked confused.

"Captain Barbossa wants you on his crew? You must've done something to charm him to your liking, mate! He's a tough captain, but a good one. Only wants seasoned sailors with him." The boy knowingly handed Margerie a scrub brush and showed her how to get the smaller barnacles off the hull. She smiled gently.

"Aye, I, ah…we got to talkin' the other night, and he said he could use a…man like me." She lied, waiting for someone to catch her in the midst of it. Surprisingly though, the boy stopped what he was doing and held out a hand in greeting. She took it, trying to make her grip firm and powerful.

"Well then, welcome to the crew of the _Queen Anne's Revenge_, mate!"

"Oy! You're not here to tolk! Get back to work, you blasted, bleeding, hull-slaking scum!" The man who had yelled at Margerie before now yelled at the both of them. The boy rolled his eyes, and he and Margerie shared a secret smile, before settling in to work.

So far, so good, Margerie thought to herself. She felt dangerous, yet refreshed. The salty sea air filled her lungs, the damp smell of the hull invigorating her. A gull called out to her invitingly, and she answered wordlessly with extra vigorous scrubbing. She knew that this, on this beach, helping to scrape the barnacles off the legendary hull of the ship of a legendary pirate, was where she was meant to be. Perhaps she could actually pull this off.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Barbossa had tried. Really, he had. It was unlike him to ever let anyone know when he was leaving port, save for his crew, but he'd had a bit of time to kill, and thought it might be nice to give the female barkeep he'd been spending time with a final story to remember him by. But she hadn't been there. No one had seen her since the incident with Bartholomew's crew. All that was left behind of her life in the tavern was a room, a few meager personal effects, and her rumpled dress in a heap on the floor. Following the apparent pattern of this logic, Barbossa assumed she'd met a dastardly fate at the hands of one overzealous rotten sailor. He pitied her, but that was the extent of his interest. Once he was out the door of the Horse's Mouth, he never looked back.

With the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ cleaned, repaired, painted, and sealed, it was high time to float her back to an upright position, replace her assets, stock supplies, and make sail. Hector was secretly ecstatic to be going on another adventure so soon. Still, he felt a distinct hole in his mariner's world when he found he wasn't of much help with moving his things back onboard the ship. He couldn't carry them and clamor on board at the same time, due to his false leg. The last thing he wanted was to be labeled as incompetent by his crew, however, especially the new sailors, and so he did as much as he could, catching lines, accounting for supplies, and "bartering" with shopkeepers for everything they would need. Jack Sparrow, however, spent his time frolicking about the island, with all manner of company and drink. After the third day of getting ready for the voyage, his disinclination to help, after it was he who suggested the harrowing journey, was grating on Barbossa's nerves. Yet he steadied himself and said nothing. He had a much better plan of action in mind.

Much better.

* * *

><p>Margerie had absolutely no concept of what she was getting into when she got into it. And she felt completely lost.<p>

Her ill fitting man's clothes still felt slightly foreign to her- having a sewn crotch that restricted her movements befuddled her for the first few days she spent in trousers. It caused her to walk with a bit of a bowlegged swagger, which was actually a blessing in disguise. Instead of looking shy and uncertain, she simply looked drunk and confident. Finally, she settled into the swing of things, hitting her stride in the familiar back and forth, almost mindless movement of taking cargo onboard. Of course, this involved a bit of an in-between step in boarding and leaving the mighty frigate, as the rickety gangplank leading to her main deck rocked back and forth with one wrong step. And while carrying awkwardly shaped loads, it was nothing short of a daunting task. Still, she pressed on. There was just something in Margerie's gut that told her the effort and the embarrassing naivety would pay off once they got underway, so she stuck out the trembling arms and the aching back in order to bring casks of powder, sacks of shot, shipbiscuits, kegs of beer, and salted meat on board.

She was glad for the dirt obscuring her face in the days spent hauling supplies, because she could feel the heat rise in her cheeks almost every time she boarded the ship, like clockwork. Margerie was also grateful for her younger companion, who, as a cabin boy, knew exactly where he was going on board the vessel, and would often discreetly grab her elbow and spin her to point in the right direction. She always rewarded him with a quiet, "thanks, mate," and he would nod, as though teaching a disguised female barkeep where the galley and the gunroom were was his only duty in life.

It took three days to move the ship's prior assets and new cargo to the vessel. The crew of the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ spent their days hard at work, and the nights, for non-natives with no immediate place to go, were spent camped high on the beach, singing, telling stories, getting drunk, and passing out beneath the innumerable stars. For Margerie, it meant sopping up the last memories of home that she possibly could. It meant staying quiet and listening in intent rapture to the other sailor's tales of hair-raising acts when underway. And it meant keeping away from drink as much as possible, lest she fall victim to inebriated decisions and show herself for who she really was.

On the last night they would spend ashore, something happened. It was as if the very albatross were holding their breath. A crackling fire reflected and danced on the dark faces of the crew, all drawn in close for protection against the slightly biting North wind. But that fire not only danced on skin- it danced in eyes as well. The seasoned sailors- all of whom had served before, except Margerie- were quiet, but as they looked from one to another, they seemed to share a silent story that the disguised barkeep felt apart from. Feeling despair settle in, she listened as one man cleared his throat.

"Cap'ain says we'll be off by th' light o' mornin'." He murmured. Another sailor nodded in agreement.

"Seems like it, and I, for one, cannot wait to be good and gone."

"Yer daft!" A third man exclaimed. "The only reason I'm on fer this'un is 'cause I canna afferd ta feed me wife an' six brats! No sailor in 'is roight mind who 'ould be burstin' 'is breeches ta make sail, tell ye wot!"

Margerie bristled. Her body rattled with every breath from the heavy work of preparing the ship, and she doubted she could move at that moment, even if the need should arise. Until this point, she had been wrapped up beneath a tattered blanket that was being discarded from the last journey, close to the fire, as to try to drive the anxious chill from her bones. But it only worsened with the nervous talk of the sailors. Remembering just in time to deepen her voice, Margerie cleared her throat.

"And..uh…well, why? What's so bad about this…erm, journey?" She rasped, leaning in closer out of curiosity. "Is it the captain?"

The sailor who had made his unease known opened his mouth to speak, but was promptly cut off by a fourth man joining the fray. From Margerie's peripheral vision, she could just make out the toes of well-worn brown, calfskin boots.

"Aye. The captain…the ship…and by the looks of it, the crew, even."

The voice belonging to the boots caused a scowl from the man who had been speaking, but it didn't seemed to mind as the rest of it plunked down between Margerie and another sailor, brandishing a rum bottle with tipsy vigor.

"But the real danger involving this noble and forcibly necessitated undertaking... lies in the journey itself."

The barkeep felt an arm drape itself over her shoulders, and started a bit in alarm, until she noticed that the pirate's other arm was draped over crewman's shoulder to her left. Her alarm did not go unnoticed, however, and the drunken mass beside her made it a point to address it.

"Oi, better get used to that, mate. It's a shame ye not be a woman. You've got shoulders of the sort. Are you sure you're not better suited to a different lifestyle? The life of a dancer, perhaps! Or maybe one of those silly little _consorts_ to the King himself, ey? You know, the kind that flit about London bringing all manner of messages hither and thitherto their respective receivers?"

One of the sailors that had been talking guffawed as Margerie grimaced. But before she had a chance to reply, the solitary sound of a single boot echoed in her right ear.

"I think ye be meanin' _couriers_, Jack. And ye would all do well not to listen to _his_ explanations of what we are about to be gettin' at."

Beneath her strategically stuffed linen shirt and tightly bound breasts, Margerie's heart pounded so hard she could barely hear the fire or the waves over the rushing in her ears. She broke out into a cold sweat and rubbed her hands against her thighs vigorously. Jack noticed.

"You alright there, mate? You look a bit…delicate."

Barbossa cast a sharp glance down his nose at the form huddled beneath him, which refused to meet his gaze. The shapeless blob of a man almost looked familiar, from what he could see. Almost. He shifted his weight carefully to rest more on the peg than his foot. Straightening his back, he managed to catch the attention of everyone in the circle except Jack, who was still closely scrutinizing the disguised woman to his right. Margerie's nose wrinkled in distaste at the nearly unbearable smell of rum on Sparrow's breath, as he leaned more of his form on her in a desperate attempt to keep himself upright.

"Now listen mates, and listen well. I won't be needin' any manner of weak, incompetent, _feminine_ rag dolls aboard me ship and in me crew. Every sailor is to put his weight's worth of gold into his work, or I'll person'lly see to it that he never sails again. This is to be a long and dangerous voyage. Ye are to follow orders exactly as I give them, or we're all dead men. Any man here who cannot haul his own salt underway had better speak now and turn tail, or take their leave alone, to a swift and wat'ry grave. Be I clear?"

"Aye!" Jack offered first with a shout and a manic grin. The grin suddenly dropped, however, when he started fixedly at the rum bottle in his hand, and then at Margerie.

"Oi…what's _in_ this?" He muttered, before passing out flat backwards and nearly catching his boots on fire.

Barbossa rolled his eyes as a smug smirk plastered itself to his face. He stared down at Margerie again for a long moment, watching "him" begin to shrink into an even smaller ball beneath his scrutiny. Considering it pre-voyage jitters, which, he had found, many of the more superstitious members of his crews tended to develop when they discovered he was captain, Hector shrugged off the strange behavior and jabbed a finger at a couple sailors in the circle.

"You two. Take 'im aboard. I'll deal with him meself." He barked, nodding to himself as he watched the sailors immediately scramble to their feet and haul the unconscious Jack Sparrow into their arms. He turned to follow them, but stopped, grating voice directed at the sole person in the circle who didn't appear bolstered by his list of demands.

"Ye'd do well to make up yer mind 'afore dawn, sailor. Once we set sail, there will be no quarter shown for fear an' fault. Where we're headed, they say, fears become livin' nightmares before yer very eyes. Do yerself a favor and reconsider quickly, while I be in a generous mood and givin' ye the chance."

With that, he stalked off towards the ship, leaving the rattled woman behind to seriously think about his offer. For Margerie, there was nothing left on Tortuga for her to consider. No prospects. No family. No suitors, and hardly any pay at her honest living. She realized that she'd never really had a choice, in the first place. She either lived a life worth living, or died without having seen anything. It all seemed so clear in her head, but around her, her heading grew less and less certain. The more turned around she became, the more she began to realize what she really was.

A fool.

And yet, she stayed on the beach until dawn's first light propelled her to move, if only because she hadn't the strength to run uphill before. The only way left to go was down.

She sincerely hoped she'd find momentum.

* * *

><p><em>Glossary of Terms<em>

**Float the ship**- When a ship is _careened_, it leans to either the port or starboard side on what might be a careening grid, a makeshift grid, or just a beach. The ship is beached at high tide, and leaned over as the tide pulls out. Then, repairs and maintenance are performed on the exposed side of the hull. Heavy objects are also removed from the ship, to prevent further damage. To "float the ship" means to return the ship to an upright position, rather than leaning to either side.

**Make Sail**- to begin a voyage.

**Gangplank**- a movable bridge used for boarding or leaving a ship.

**Shipbiscuits**- Better known as 'hard tack,' shipbiscuits are a type of incredibly durable cracker made of flour, water, and the occasional addition of salt. They were (and occasionally still are) an integral part of a sailor's diet at sea.

**Cabin boy**- A young boy who waits on the officers of a ship. In this case, the blond boy who found Barbossa's hat in the 4th movie.

**Galley**- The kitchen of a ship.

**Gunroom**- Traditionally the room on a wooden vessel that was inhabited by the gunner and his men, as it is in this case (seeing as the QAR, at this point, is pirate owned and therefore operated under slightly different leadership formations than the traditional naval ship- at least, in PotC, anyway). However, the gunroom can also refer (and typically does refer) to the room as the mess hall and/or accommodations for junior officers.

**No quarter**- Whereas 'giving quarter' would mean taking prisoners/hostages and negotiating with the enemy force, no quarter means to show the enemy no mercy, and to kill all combatants/take whatever/do whatever.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Jack Sparrow came to with a groan and a groggy head. His world not only rocked, it spun. Moaning plaintively again, he attempted to sit up.

Then tried again.

And again. Finally, he succeeded.

Squinting through his foggy haze, Sparrow looked about him with as much alertness as he could muster. It was dark- not impossibly so, but just enough to cast long, deep brown shadows around everywhere he turned. He experienced vertigo for a moment, eyelids fluttering balefully and body swaying back and forth of its own accord.

Or…was it?

Jack scooted forward on the floor from his sitting position as far as he could, and would have gone further, had a restricting force not jerked him backwards. The rattling sound did not go unnoticed, and the pirate looked down, to find his wrists and ankles in heavy iron shackles. Tight ones. As though they'd been fitted especially for Jack. He made a face at them as he clinked them together obnoxiously, wriggling in an attempt to pull free- shackles and all- of the rings that held him. Dust kicked up around him, sparkling whenever it caught the half-light. Somehow, all this seemed very familiar, and several times over, at that. Including the very air surrounding him.

Inquiringly, the disoriented captain leaned forwards towards the facing wall, which he was just close enough to touch if he tried. As he moved, his arms were pulled further and further back behind him, until the chains holding him were taut. Finding no other way to test the boundary before him, Jack turned his face sideways and pressed his right cheek to the clammy wood. He took a deep breath, and his nose wrinkled in distaste at the musky tang of damp, old lumber, ancient salt, and pitch. But Jack was Jack, and every so often, the strangest notions would enter his head. So, shrugging to himself, he pressed his face harder against the wall and reached out with his tongue, to see if he couldn't touch the wood with it. Perhaps if he tasted it, he'd know why it seemed so very memorable.

And when he did make contact, a bemused sound of exasperation from behind him froze him where he was.

"What be ye doin', there, Jack?"

Retracting his tongue, Sparrow closed his eyes and exhaled. It was only Hector. Disregarding the fact that he was stuck in chains with no weapons in a dark room with the dangerous elder pirate and seemingly no other living soul, he relaxed. It could have been worse.

"Me? Nothing. It's nothing at all…er... the wall tastes like the _Revenge_. Did you toss me in the brig?"

"Aye." Barbossa rose from his perch upon a rough-hewn wooden stool, where had been sitting with his false leg outstretched, the other drawn up in thought. He had already searched the other pirate lord for any indication of how the map to Atlantis functioned, and had come up short. It truly hadn't been long since they had last encountered each other- how could he possibly have learned the secret so quickly? But try as he might, Hector couldn't come up with an answer to any of his questions, other than the fact that was certain- _dead_ certain, this time- that Jack could not escape his bonds.

"This is where ye'll be spendin' yer time aboard, 'til we get where we're headed. I'll come to ye when yer needed, and not before. Yer ta stay here, Jack. I trust the…_accommodations_ are suited to yer rather fine tastes." He rasped, nodding at the noxious tinkling of heavy iron against heavy iron. Jack's expression dropped from one of disgust to one of disbelief.

"Captain Barbossa! If I may… this is _not _what I had in mind when we made our agreement!" Jack whined, rattling his chains in a show against his confinement. Hector chuckled darkly.

"But did ye not say that the terms for passage aboard me ship meant that I could do with ye what I wanted, so long as it did not involve harm of any sort comin' to ye?"

Jack blinked up at the elder captain, a spider trapped in his own web.

"Well, er…yes, but-" Barbossa abruptly cut him off with a face splitting grin and a wide-arcing gesture of hospitality.

"Then this is exactly what ye had in mind!" With that, Barbossa managed to sweep himself out of the dual-purpose hold (Blackbeard had many useful things retrofitted into the Queen Anne's Revenge, chiefly among them, manacles and sturdy cells for prisoners) and haul himself up the ladder to the gun deck with some semblance of grace.

As soon as Hector's back was turned, Jack frantically strained and ripped at the manacles around his wrists and ankles, but to no avail. Standing up, though slightly pulled over from the chains that bound him to the floor, he took a moment to watch a lantern, a coil of rope, and a small cheesecloth pouch of drying herbs sway back and forth from the cross beams of the deck above him. The pirate craned his neck as far around in both directions as he could, eventually turning in a full circle to look around, taking stock of the stool, the iron bars of his partitioned cell, some crates, and some barrels. It was a very ordinary hold, with very ordinary inanimate occupants. Jack twitched.

"I can't use any of this, you know!" He yelled, cupping one hand around his mouth for added volume. Above him, he heard Barbossa laugh deeply. There was no need to explain himself to his captor. He'd been tangled in Jack's affairs long enough to understand he was looking for a means to escape.

"Aye, that's because yer not supposed to! Maybe ye can call a couple sea turtles to your defense!" He called back, still chuckling.

As the tattling _step-thump_ sound of the captain's unnatural stride faded away, Jack gave one last defiant chain concerto by stomping about in the hold and flailing his arms in frustration. Finally, after much thrashing, he sat back on his haunches and plunked down crosslegged on the wooden floor, head falling forward into one of his hands. He huffed uncomfortably.

"Well…bugger."

* * *

><p>Margerie slumped down against the gunwale for just a moment, to try to catch her breath. She had to admit, for all her pains and worries, she <em>was<em> having fun. Discreetly, the cabin boy passed her and handed her an oiled rag, ensuring she wouldn't be called out for slouching on the job. She made a mental note to find a way to do something spectacular and unforgettable to pay him back for all his kindness.

The _Revenge_ was slowly pulling away from Tortuga. It had been a bit difficult to get the ship moving; even with high tide, the wind had been light and playful, and wasn't capable of doing much in the way of propelling the monstrous frigate off the beach. So the poles had come out, with each deckhand taking a firm hold and throwing as much of their weight and energy into the job as possible. Margerie didn't think she had contributed overly much to the force behind literally pushing the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ out into deeper water, but she still felt a sense of accomplishment. They were on their way to wherever it was they were going. And she was going with them.

But the poling was over, the long wooden sticks neatly replaced, and the wind was picking up as they left the shelter of port. And now she was growing nervous once again, realizing that the old pirate captain's tales had done nothing to explain to her exactly what she was supposed to _do_ aboard a ship. Peeking at another crew member alongside her, she lifted the rag in her hand and began to gently lubricate the cannon to her left.

Just as she was getting used to the imposing six-pounder beside her and was developing a hazy sense of how it functioned and how to properly use it, Margerie started to notice the movement of the ship beneath her. It seemed that they had finally hit deep and open water, with the full force of the waves moving the boat like a leaf on the wind.

"Bloody hell…" She murmured under her breath. She knew what was going to start happening now that she'd noticed it, and was already beginning to feel a bit nauseated. Remembering a helpful hint from another tavern patron long ago, she resolutely fixed her gaze on the horizon before her, keeping her vision as focused as she could while she fiddled with the deck cannon in her peripheral. It seemed to work for a while, but with no reprieve from the all around movement of the ship, it didn't last long. Margerie's stomach began to churn violently.

"I am not going to. No. I will not retch. I will _not_." She assumed her heated whispering to the cannon either made her look like she was a very good and attentive cannoneer, or as though she was a bit touched in the head. But for all her assurance, she lost the battle when a couple sailors behind her began to chatter through their work of securing lines to belaying pins. They worked as though they were a single person, each with his own line and pin, but each making the same turn at the same time. The sheer stepped nature of their work caused bile to rise in Margerie's throat when she looked back at them.

"Oi, did ye 'ear wot 'appened to our ole' mate Zacariah? 'E's left wit a bloody stump of an arm after the _Empress_ fired on 'is ship. Chain shot. Ripped 'im clean off the mainmast and left 'is roight'un a roight mess, it did. But 'e lived! I seen 'im with a flock 'o wenches at port not long ago. They feel sorry for 'im." One of the sailors commented. The other, a shorter, plumper, dirty blond man snickered a bit.

"If that's the case, maybe we should think about losin' some!" He replied. Margerie rolled her eyes. The first sailor grinned wolfishly as he stared out at the endless blue, still securing lines.

"I'd give most o' me God given parts back to 'im to have them girlies do ta me what ole' Zaccy said they'd been doin' ta 'im! Said they just 'wanted ta put 'im out o' 'is mis'ry. Somethin' about not 'avin washed or changed shirts in weeks, and 'ad been layin' in th' streets or wit the hogs, and they _still_ went at 'is bits with their-"

It was all Margerie could stand to hear in her current condition. The combination of nerves, seasickness, and stories meant for times when she'd already siphoned a good amount of rum from her customer's bottles propelled her half off the side of the ship and her stomach into her throat. The two pirates that had been babbling cast the "man" hanging over the bulwark and vomiting a bit of an odd stare. Something Margerie didn't catch was murmured under the blond one's breath, and he jerked a thumb at her as she straightened up and wiped at the back of her mouth with her sleeve. Kneeling beside the cannon again, she shook her head to try to clear it of the feeling of unsteadiness she kept experiencing.

In a moment, the raunchy, yet amicable talk continued, and the idea of losing limbs started to seem better and better to the slow-witted sailors. The blond one shook his head in mirth. His companion finished the coil he was working on and moved on, waving a hand in the air dreamily.

"Take Captain Barbossa, for instance. Bet 'e's right set with the ladies now, ey? 'Ow many do ye think 'e gets a night at port? With a face an' a leg like that- one, maybe two?"

Margerie had had no choice but to continue listening to their talk, as she'd shifted to the cannon to her left, which placed her even closer to the two of them. She'd heard the sound of uneven steps behind her long before they did, but said nothing, afraid to call attention to herself. The captain in question had emerged from below deck, and had been surveying his crew at work, making mental notes in his head about all sorts of things, both technical and personal, while he stalked across the ship to the quarterdeck. Upon hearing the conversation between the two sailors, however, he stopped, face falling beneath his large hat into a stern expression. Stepping as softly as possible with his false leg, he'd managed to come up behind them, undetected.

"Me record be in the teens, and that was before the leg." He leaned in and rasped in their ears, causing them both to jump. The blond pirate dropped his line, and fumbled frantically for it as it ripped from his hands. Barbossa, however, reached out and caught the rope dead in the air. If he'd received any rope burn on his hand, he didn't even flinch. With a scowl, he handed it back to the pirate, who took it sheepishly. His companion finished his coil and scurried off, eager to be out of the captain's way.

"Master Scrum, if yer so intent on experiencin' what it be like to lose a part of ye-" He stopped, long fingers curling reflexively around the pommel and grip of his sword. The adam's apple of the one known as Scrum visibly jumped in his throat, and he leaned back, gingerly holding onto the line in his hand. Barbossa leaned in with a wide smirk across his face.

"-It can be easily arranged."

Scrum feverishly shook his head in the negative.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Captain." He all but squeaked.

"Good, because I don't feel like having to clean the blood off me ship just yet. Now. Get back to work! Ye have yer orders already." He barked authoritatively.

Margerie's stomach began to pitch unbecomingly again, and she gagged a bit. The noise seemed to catch the attention of the captain, who once again found himself scrutinizing the slight sailor off to his side, as though trying to figure out how drunk he'd been when he'd recruited someone so feeble-looking.

"Please go away, oh _please_ just go awa-" She muttered to herself below her breath, cringing when the captain called her out.

"You there! Sailor!" He drew closer. Margerie swallowed hard, the taste of acid absolutely acrid on her tongue. Hoping he wouldn't recognize her, she half-turned.

"The cannons will be attended to by the gunner and his mates. For now, I've a special job for ye in mind. We happen to be holding a captive. See to it that he doesn't escape, and bring him his needs when he needs them. Ye'll be relaying the heading above deck when it's called for."

Margerie didn't move. Hector quirked an eyebrow.

"Well? Down to the brig with ye, right smart, ye slow-witted sprog!"

Margerie scrambled to her feet as fast as she could at the sound of the captain's snarl, though she swayed back and forth with a tremendous amount of nausea when she did so. She pressed passed him, swallowing dryly again. He turned, watching her, and suddenly reached out a hand to grab at the back of her waistcoat.

"What be yer name, boy?" He asked. Margerie was a bit quick to answer.

"Mar…er…Marley, sir," she corrected herself just in time, feeling the heat of the captain's befuddled gaze.

"Marley what?"

"Marley Cuthbert." Margerie could feel practically herself turning green.

"Ye've sailed before the mast, at least, right? How did ye get here?" He took a step back, as if knowing what was about to happen. Margerie floundered for an answer.

"Well, cap'n, I-" She paused for a moment, before practically pushing Hector out of her way and throwing herself over the bulwark again.

Hector puffed out an exasperated breath of air while rolling his eyes as the sight before him. Some of the crew hauling themselves into the rigging cringed at the sound of vomiting, but kept on about their business. Placing a firm hand on the collar of Margerie's shirt, he hauled her lank figure to her feet once she was finished.

"Alright, boy. Yer here now, anyway, and we can't afford to be a man short so soon to the wind. Ye'll just have to keep a weather eye and ear to learn the ropes. Now. Down to the hold with ye. Yer sea legs will come soon enough. And…maybe lift something heavy down there. Sparrow was right. Yer a bit slight to be a sailor. 'Specially a sailor of fortune, and on me crew."

Barbossa gave Margerie a shove towards the forecastle, and she stumbled down below deck, praying not to lose her footing on the ladder. She desperately attempted to maneuver across the ship and find her way to the brig without problem, but ended up on her knees, vomiting into the closest empty barrel she could find. When she was finished, she looked around. No one in sight.

"Well…there's a right bit of good luck," she murmured, placing a cover over the barrel and scurrying away from the scene of her stomach upset.

After much confusion, parts of the ship started to look familiar. Margerie worked her way into a lower deck, which seemed to be the place where all of the supplies she'd moved on board had vanished to. Curious to explore, she poked about the hold, trying to memorize where everything was. Suddenly, a voice disturbed her, and she couldn't help but let out a scream in her natural voice, which she quickly stifled.

From inside a wrought iron cell, the pirate from the night before knowingly looked up at her, plastering his best cocky grin to his face.

"'Ello, mate. Or should I say…_miss_?"

* * *

><p><strong>Terms Used<strong>

_gunwale_- The side of the ship. In this case, the part that exceeds the height of the upperdeck, also known as the railing.

_bulwark_- In this case...see above.

_six-pounder_- A classification of cannon, based on the weight of its shot.

_belaying pins_- An iron or wooden pin used to secure lines to, or "belay" them to.

_quarterdeck_- A part of the ship designated for the captain and officers, as well as special ceremony. The quarterdeck on the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ includes the helm (where the wheel is), and extends back to the captain's cabin.

_sprog_- A term for an inexperienced sailor.

_"before the mast"_- A phrase used to describe general crewmen on a ship who were not officers, persons of high rank, or the captain. The term is derived from the fact that the general crew's quarters and mess were at the bow of the ship (front), in/below the forecastle (pronounced foaksul). Therefore, anyone who sailed "before the mast" was a crew member who hadn't/wouldn't ascend through the ranks to become an officer of the ship.


End file.
